


Wishbones

by freshbakedlady



Series: Blessed are Those [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Consensual Magic Use, Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshbakedlady/pseuds/freshbakedlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam went from working at the VA to teaming up with Captain America to assisting on a crew of superheroes. Magic shouldn't be a big step from that, but defending Central Park earns him an unexpected favor, and Sam isn't sure he wants to accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishbones

Sam used a flying tackle to take out the sorcerer who thought carpet-bombing Central Park would be a good weekend activity. Unfortunately, the only way to make that work was to use the sun as a blind, fly at him from high up and drive him into the ground. The sorcerer got himself unconscious and Sam got himself a mangled left wing. While Steve argued with Stark about what to do now--the choices were currently “hand over to Strange because he seems to know what he's doing” (Steve) and “launch into sun, seriously, I hate magic” (Stark)--Sam shrugged out of his harness and inspected the damage.

“Gonna owe T’Challa _another_ favor,” he grumbled. The middle joint was shot, the metal all roadrash and magical char. The last joint folded up as far as it could, only to hang up against the secondary plating that couldn't retract any more. He let Stark do spot repairs, but this much damage would mean a couple weeks of shipping it off to T’Challa, a couple weeks of being grounded. He wished for the days of on-base mechanics with no greater duty in life than to get him back in the air.

Behind him, someone made a sad tutting noise. “Birds who can't fly don't last long.” Sam twisted around as best he could with the wings in his arms. He would have laughed at himself for the way he hoisted them like a shield--been spending too much time with Steve. Civilians had been evacuated from the park, though, and nobody should have been let back in yet.

The woman smiled at his surprise, her face small in the mass of drab gray sweaters she wore despite the warm weather. The only splash of color was a silk scarf wound several times around her neck, shimmering teal and purple as the light hit it. “It was bravely done of you, dear.” Around them, a flock of pigeons returned to scavenging in the absence of any immediate danger worse than an errant pedestrian’s foot.

Sam didn't lower the wings from their defensive position, but he tried to smile back at the woman. “Thanks. Kind of regretting it now though.” She seemed harmless and that was reason enough to keep his guard up. When he agreed to follow Steve against Hydra, into New York, onto a team, he had discovered that Nazis and super soldiers and assassin ship ultra drones were just the tip of the iceberg. He sort of understood Stark’s aversion to magic; Sam had seen some weird shit in this city.

“No, you don't,” she said confidently. “Birds seldom give up their nests without a fight.” A pigeon pecked around her feet. Another landed on her shoulder. Sam knew, when neither she nor the bird seemed to think it odd, that he had wandered into another bit of New York superhero weirdness.

“I take it you're not with that guy,” Sam said with a nod toward his team. Stark had the still-unconscious sorcerer pinned under the weight of the suit’s foot. The woman huffed, a noise part amusement and part annoyance.

“Certainly not. This park is our home. I would give you my thanks for protecting it at your own risk.”

Sam held up a hand as if he could ward off even gratitude. “Not necessary, ma’am. Just part of the job and all that.”

She considered him for a moment. Her eyes, small and dark, fixed on his. He resisted the urge to look away, but made a note to ask somebody if hypnotic gazes were something he should worry about these days. “I cannot give you anything without your permission. Will you accept my thanks?”

He should say no. Except. Except birds kept flocking around her, calm and content. Except he couldn't help thinking of fairytales where refusing a kindness, given or received, tended to have less than wonderful results. “Yeah, okay. I accept. And you're welcome.”

She smiled and made a pleased noise in the back of her throat. Just then, Steve’s voice called to Sam. He only turned away for a second to acknowledge Steve with a wave. The woman was gone, of course, by the time he turned back, and only the pigeons remained.

***

Sam woke up face-down on one of Stark’s marshmallow soft, survive-the-apocalypse sturdy couches. Sam had his own place in the city, having refused to take Stark up on his suggestion to become a kept hero like the rest of the team. Still, after a fight, Sam didn't much care for crashing alone. So he had let JARVIS contact T’Challa and arrange for the wings to be packed up and handed off to a courier. He had let Stark order a few hundred dollars worth of takeout, which the team wolfed down in an obscene display of enhanced metabolisms and general greediness. And he had let himself fall asleep on a couch in the entertainment room while attempting to watch the next movie on Steve’s modern media list.

He lost his balance the moment he tried to sit up. Being uncoordinated first thing in the morning was one thing, but falling off the couch was a bit much. Tumbling to the floor on his back hurt more than it had any right to. Sam twisted away from the pinned-down sensation he couldn't identify and onto his front. Off to his right, something crashed off the low coffee table. He turned to look and--

“The hell?” The wing twitched and flexed when he looked at it, this time sending a stack of magazines to join the shattered tumbler on the floor. With a sinking feeling, Sam reached up to touch his shoulder. His fingers brushed smooth, stiff feathers. “Oh, come on.”

He sat up again, this time with his hands planted on the couch. He had to brace himself against the erratic movements of the wings, which didn't seem to be under his control at all. His fingers bit into the cushions. He willed himself to close his eyes and breathe and not panic. No panicking. He had wings. Actual feather wings. Fine. No problem.

“Sam? JARVIS said--” Steve broke off from repeating whatever JARVIS had said to get him to Sam’s side. “Those are--”

“Yep. Sure are. Think you could give me a hand?” Sam opened his eyes to see Steve already offering his hand. Sam gripped and let Steve hoist him to his feet. Sam clung as he wobbled on his feet. The wings made him top-heavy and wouldn't hold still. Frustration only made them jerk more aggressively, and Steve ducked as one lashed forward. “Sorry!”

To Sam’s surprise, Steve just laughed. “You're like an angry goose. Should I get you toast as a peace offering?”

Sam gave Steve a side eye. “Laugh it up, Rogers. I'm used to wings that I can power down when I don't need them.” He tucked his arms against his sides the way he would when he was ready to retract the wings. The motion was part a muscle trigger for the suit’s sensors and part an unconscious shift to standing at ease. He shouldn't have been surprised when these wings responded by folding themselves against his back.

“Think you can keep them under control to have some breakfast? I can call--well, I'm not sure who to call about this one. Maybe Strange?”

Sam sighed. The wings flexed and settled as he did it. They were a warm, thick mass of feathers against his shoulders. The feathers tickled against his skin even through the shredded back of his t-shirt. “Don't bother. I know what happened. Serves me right for talking to strangers in the park.” Really, though, he still couldn't figure out if this was supposed to be a gift or a punishment.

***

“Get out of my tower. You're contaminating it with magic,” Stark growled into the depths of his coffee mug. He had entered the kitchen already in possession of it, which showed a disturbing commitment to caffeination.

Sam rolled his eyes and continued to slather cream cheese on half a bagel. “You planning to throw Thor out too?”

Thor smiled beatifically when he said, “Tony is most welcome to try,” and it made the sentiment marginally less ominous. The pink frosted pop-tart helped too.

Steve had, with Sam’s reluctant consent, called the team together in the common kitchen. Barton had looked a little offended, in the way he always did when reminded of the similarity between his code name and Sam’s. Banner had gotten that creepy science gleam in his eye that suggested Sam would be the object of gratuitous medical scans and testing if he held still too long. Natasha had smirked and muttered something about preening that Sam pretended he hadn't heard. Thor and Steve, handsy things on a good day, were the worst of it, and Sam had positioned himself so neither one could grope his exciting new appendages.

He told them all the story of the woman in the park. It was Thor who said, “It is no surprise that such a place should attract its own small gods.” As though that was perfectly understandable.

“Gods?” Sam echoed in disbelief.

Thor shrugged. “I believe that is what your Midgardian cultures would call them. You are unharmed, so it would seem a blessing offered in good faith, regardless.”

“I'm pretty sure shirts are going to be out of the question for the duration, and I can't exactly walk down the street like this. ’Unharmed’ is relative.”

Thor frowned, considering such difficulties. Sam didn't imagine wings would have slowed an Asgardian down much. “I doubt the effect is permanent,” he offered at last.

“Better hurry up, then,” Stark said. He finally looked human thanks to coffee. He stuffed half a bagel in his mouth in a couple bites. Swallowing hard, he added, “Our testing window is shrinking. Chop chop.”

Sam shook his head. “No way. There is no way these are flight worthy. Do you know how much more wingspan I would need--plus the muscles to power ’em--for these to lift a human? Not to mention, without a jet, I don't have vertical takeoff capacity any more. And I don't think LaGuardia is gonna lend me a runway.”

Stark spread his hands in a showman’s gesture. “I've got a tower. Just jump off it.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, that’s--wow, Stark, that's a terrible idea.”

Stark rolled his eyes. “I'm gonna have the suit on, _obviously_. So if it doesn't work I can catch you before you splatter.” Whatever face Sam made, he needed to learn to control it better, because Stark took it to mean he was ready to be convinced. “Come on, Wilson. We fliers gotta stick together. I should call Rhodey in--”

Sam held his hands up in defeat. “I will do this with you only if you do not make Rhodes deal with it. I've met the guy and he does not deserve this nonsense.”

Stark hummed. “More fun for me then. Come on, let's go do some field testing.”

***

Sam didn't get vertigo, couldn't afford to in his line of work. His stomach still lurched a little when he looked over the edge of Stark’s landing pad. The street below was a kingdom of ants. He could hear the breath of wind between buildings. Towers created their own air currents, treacherous slipstreams and sudden gales that wound like snakes between buildings. He knew how to fly in the city, but it wasn't easy.

“Stop thinking, start flying,” Stark said. The filters on the suit turned his voice flat. It sounded more like a threat than playful cajolery. The rest of the team--those assholes--stood around with the remnants of breakfast and avid expressions at the safe center of the pad.

Sam closed his eyes and imagined he was just wearing the wing suit. He stretched his arms out, in position to take up the hand holds he used for maximum maneuverability. Feathers brushed the backs of his hands instead of metal and he flinched away. His wings gave a startled shiver. He focused on that, on the sensation of them flexing along his back. They flapped once, twice. That was him. That was his body.

“Jesus,” he whispered. He could feel the wind up there slide past each feather. He could feel where each one was rooted in his new skin, where they transmitted vibrations down to the delicate bones.

“Yeah, exactly,” Stark said. Sam didn't need to hear the tone to know Stark’s voice was as reverent as his own had been. _Flying_.

“Yeah, okay, let’s do this.” And before he could psych himself back out of it, Sam gave his wings a few hard beats and threw himself forward and off the tower edge.

There was a moment--wind cutting against the exposed skin below his goggles, wings a heavy, unfamiliar weight on his back, arms and legs twisting in free-fall--when Sam thought he would just fall. He could hear Stark’s repulsors roaring above and behind him. He waited for hard metal arms to close around him and jolt him to a stop.

Then an updraft caught under his wings. It slammed them upwards and he resisted without having to think about it. The muscles in his shoulders and chest screamed in protest. It felt like his whole chest would split, wrenched open by the torque of the wings against his modified shoulder blades and collarbones. He pushed back against it, desperate to keep his heart where it belonged, and his wings flapped down around him.

The flurry of feathers blocked his vision for a second then revealed the city again. He could almost see the currents, could feel them plucking against the feathers. All at once, it was the most natural thing in the world to flap his wings again, cup them around the wind and shove it away again. The city, rushing up to claim him, to drag him down to earth, dropped away again. He rose like he had been born to fly, just like this and never any other way.

Stark rocketed into view again. He let out a whoop of unrestrained pleasure. “What did I tell you?” It made a laugh bubble up in Sam’s chest, and he let the wind reach into his mouth and pull it out, toss it into the sky as he climbed farther.

“Never going to hear a word against magic again,” Sam agreed. His legs, accustomed to this part at least, tipped behind him like tail feathers and steered Sam around the curve of the tower. The climb wasn't as fast as it would have been in the suit, but he still felt like a rocket being launched when he cleared the level of the landing pad and heard the cheers of the team. He saluted them on his way up. Then he twisted away and aimed himself at the open sky.

***

Up above the smog layer, suspended on a good, loyal updraft that started to feel like an old friend, Sam felt like his namesake. He could see forever, out over the bay and off into the heart of the city. The curve of the earth looked like something he could hold in his hand, soft and fragile and precious.

He couldn't remember the last time he had the luxury of just looking. He was always on his way to a fight, a rescue, an emergency, racing against the clock of damage done and blood lost. He was always on his way back to base, to the tower, to home, holding on against injuries and exhaustion. The skies were never just there for the taking.

“Wish you were here with me, Ri,” Sam whispered. Everything felt too exposed, too close to the surface. He wished he could share this with Riley, the perfect rightness of this that only Riley would have really understood. He felt flayed open still, heart vulnerable and frantic as a sparrow’s. The sun raised sweat on his skin and the wind chilled it in an instant. No armor could protect him from this; no jet could outrun it. The first tears surprised him and pulled another giddy laugh out of him.

When he was ready, he let himself drop out of the updraft and into a barrel roll. His chest ached dully when he opened his wings again. He licked his lips and realized they were painfully dry. He didn't know how long he had been in the air. Minutes or days, it would never be long enough and it would always be too much. He landed easily, the mechanisms of it the same as ever. Legs outstretched, he tipped backward and beat his wings against his own forward motion until he could run and stagger to a stop.

He didn't realize he was collapsing until the Iron Man armor was bruising his ribs. Faceplate up, Stark said, “Easy there. Landing is the worst part.” Sam looked up, feeling dazed, and saw the wry twist of Stark’s mouth. Riley might have been the only one who could fully understand what it meant to Sam to fly with real wings. Stark, though, looked like he knew what it meant to land hard.

Sam let Stark lower him to the landing pad. His legs didn't want to hold him. His breath roared in his ears. It wasn't panic or grief or any emotion he could identify. It was just the too-much-ness of owning a piece of sky for any amount of time, all the freedom crashing down on him. “Overdid it,” he gasped out.

Stark pressed a bottle of water into his hands. “Is there any other way?” Sam guzzled it down and dumped the dregs across his wind-chapped face. He wiped it with hands that only shook a little. The rest of the team had gone.

“Thanks.” Stark shrugged, the way he always did when someone caught him being a better person than he wanted to seem. “If these last much longer, you wanna dogfight?” Sam asked. Stark grinned, all teeth and bad ideas.

***

They lasted a week. Sam kept a low profile, sticking to the rooms of the tower and letting the others bring him takeout and company. He didn't stroll through downtown or show off in the park. (He _thought_ about it, but he didn't do it.) Feeling stir crazy was impossible, though, because he also flew with Stark every day: dogfighting between office buildings and turning lazy loops in the flight paths Rhodes cleared for them and cutting slices into the water of the bay with his wingtips. The pull in his chest became familiar and he stopped feeling like something would have to give. He learned to fly all over again.

The morning when he woke up with the wings gone, Sam did not cry. He grieved, certainly, but there had been too much pleasure to regret anything and too much magic to believe he could keep it forever. Still, the others went quiet when they saw him. Thor clapped him on the back and said, “Magic can give many things, but it cannot take away your heart,” with the melancholy of someone who had magic take a great deal.

Finally able to wear shirts again and not attract hazardous attention in public, Sam headed for the park. He sat on a bench and opened the paper bag he had carried tucked under his arm. The pigeons burbled contentedly around his feet as he tossed out handfuls of seed and stale bread. He didn't know if the woman would appear again or if she even had any reason to. He stayed until the sun started to sink and the birds retreated to their roosts. Before the last of them left, he said, “Thank you. You ever need anything, you know where to find me.”

If, after that, Sam noticed birds keeping pace with him while he flew, if they sometimes lead him to where a teammate was pinned down in a fight, if they seemed to escort him home with an honor guard on days when the fighting took more out of him than he thought he could give--well. It was probably just wishful thinking.

**Author's Note:**

> [Join me on Tumblr](http://joycesully.tumblr.com/) for Sam Wilson Wing Appreciation Day. (Tip: _Every_ day is Sam Wilson Wing Appreciation Day.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wishbones (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129196) by [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/pseuds/mergatrude)




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